


Out, Damn Spot

by fuzipenguin



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 05:20:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9420371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzipenguin/pseuds/fuzipenguin
Summary: Just because no one dies, doesn't mean it's not a bad day





	

**Author's Note:**

> Fic written for and included in the TFZine 2016 Medic edition

                It’s Wheeljack that finds him.

                It’s always Wheeljack. Every now and then he’s joined by someone else like Optimus or Ironhide, but they’re usually busy with command decisions or lying on a hospital bed sedated by Ratchet’s own hand. While Wheeljack is technically part of command as the Autobot Chief Engineer, he doesn’t actually take part in many of the meetings. Nor is he prone to injuries.

                On the battlefield at least.

                So he’s usually the one that tracks Ratchet down at times like this. Some days it’s to Ratchet’s quarters, others to one of the auxiliary storage rooms off the Medical Bay that only the command element has the codes to.

                This time, Wheeljack finds Ratchet in one of the washracks. It’s the one at the aft end of the ship, where the water is a touch too hot, even for their temperature-resistant frames. It’s also the smallest ‘rack, with stalls that would force his knees to his chest if he were to sit down with his back to the wall. And that’s what he does, in the farthest cubicle from the door. It’s there he tries to drown out the world by means of submerging his head under the rush of water.  

                He’s been there roughly fifteen minutes when the spray is redirected to splatter against the wall by Ratchet’s pedes. He looks up slowly and sees Wheeljack standing in the aisle, shaking water off his fingers.

                “Wanna join me?” Ratchet asks after a beat of silence, his helm aching. The temperature of the water has certainly done no good to the sensors in his chevron. Yet he revels in the pain, just a little bit.

                “Sure,” Wheeljack replies easily, folding himself up and plopping down next to Ratchet. The stall is so cramped that only part of Wheeljack’s back rests against the wall and his legs stretch out into the aisle.  “You thinking about staying here for a bit?”

                Ratchet nods slowly. “Until I have to relieve Hoist.”

                “What about ‘Aid?” Wheeljack questions, frowning a little as he leans into Ratchet’s side. It’s too hot, especially after the water, but the familiar press of his best friend’s plating is comforting. And Ratchet’s not too far gone to reject the contact at the moment.

                “I want a more experienced optic on Optimus,” Ratchet explains. Someone who could react fast and without doubt if the Prime crashed again. It was doubtful that he would, not after the hours Ratchet had spent in the larger mech’s internals, but if there was one life Ratchet could never chance, it was Optimus’.

                “I thought he was doing well?”

                Ratchet shrugs. “He’s better. If there hasn’t been complications by now, there probably won’t be. ‘Course with my luck…” Ratchet trails off with a look down at his hands. They’re clenched into fists, buried between his thighs so as to minimize the tremors running through his arms.

                He’d almost lost their leader today. Had almost let another spark slip through his fingers, a spark he had cherished for a very, very long time.

                Wheeljack nudges him and stares at the side of his helm. Ratchet can’t face those optics. He knows what he’ll see there. Trust and belief and admiration; things he doesn’t deserve.

                “You did good today,” Wheeljack says softly.

                Ratchet snorts, but before he can reply, (something which will probably be scathing and not what _Wheeljack_ deserves), the door to the washrack room pushes open.

                Both mechs look up in surprise as they listen to the sound of pedesteps coming closer. Wheeljack shifts to place more of his frame in front of Ratchet’s; the action is so typical of his protective best friend that Ratchet feels his spark seize a bit with love.

                “What the Pit?” Wheeljack exclaims, helm fins flashing a warning as the mystery mech comes into view. “I locked that with command codes.”

                Sunstreaker shrugs. “Sideswipe is better at hacking, but I can do it if it’s not too complicated. And that,” he says dismissively, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, “was pretty easy.”

                At the mention of the crimson frontliner’s name, Ratchet flinches, optics dropping to the floor. The other mechs must notice, based on the sensation of two gazes crawling over his frame.

                “What are you doing here?” Wheeljack demands, pressing even more firmly against Ratchet’s side as he turns back towards Sunstreaker.

                “Can’t a guy get a wash?” Sunstreaker replies. It’s a question loaded with apparently all the snipe he’s able to muster. Normally Wheeljack wouldn’t be bothered by Sunstreaker’s tone, but here and now…

                Palpable against Ratchet’s arm, Wheeljack’s armor flares. “Get one elsewhere,” he snaps.

                Ex-venting a sigh, Ratchet places a restraining hand on Wheeljack’s wrist. Ratchet couldn’t stand to have it on his conscience if Wheeljack got hurt. “It’s ok, ‘Jack.”

                Ratchet ignores Wheeljack’s fin flash of surprise and instead looks up at Sunstreaker, tucking his hand back between his thighs. “What do you want, Sunny?”

                Sunstreaker twitches and too late Ratchet realizes that today is probably not the best day to chance using the hated nickname. But it’s not like he can recall it now. All he can do is brace for whatever is about to come out of the other mech’s mouth.

                “I want your hands,” Sunstreaker says flatly, propping his own on his hips.

                Well. That is definitely not what Ratchet had expected.

                Almost in unison, Ratchet’s and Wheeljack’s heads tilt to the side in confusion, and Wheeljack uses a single word to sum up what Ratchet assumes they both are thinking.

                “Huh?”

                Sunstreaker rolls his optics and it’s such a Sideswipian expression that Ratchet’s vents hiccup in distress. Wheeljack whirls around and again stares at Ratchet, optics demanding to know that he’s ok.

                Ratchet nods once silently.

                “I want to see your hands,” Sunstreaker repeats imperiously, drawing their attention back to the frontliner.

                “Why?” Ratchet can’t fathom a reason, other than the fact Sunstreaker can clearly observe that they’re tucked away.

                “They’re dirty. Aren’t they.”

                It’s more of a statement than a question and one that hits far too close to home. Ratchet flinches again and apparently that is the last straw for Wheeljack. He pushes himself to his feet and faces down Sunstreaker. And bless him, the engineer doesn’t show even one iota of fear.

                “Look, Sunstreaker, it’s been a bit of a hard day for all of us, but Ratchet really deserves a break, so why don’t you find another ‘rack to primp in,” Wheeljack spits, plating practically bristling.

                Sunstreaker at least, looks a little impressed. It’s not often one gets to see Wheeljack in true protective mode as it’s usually reserved for Ratchet, and 98% of the time Ratchet can take care of himself.

                “Here,” Ratchet interjects, before things between the two mechs can escalate further. He removes his hands from between his thighs and holds them out. “Take a look if you want.”

                Wheeljack turns in surprise, and Sunstreaker takes the opportunity to slide by him. He crouches down next to Ratchet and stares at his outstretched arms. A deep frown mars Sunstreaker’s features as his gaze focuses in on scratched and trembling red digits.

                “What are you…?” Wheeljack sputters, but even he’s not brave enough to attempt to remove Sunstreaker by force now.

                “Dirty,” Sunstreaker announces after a spark beat. He nods his head as if confirming something he already knew.

                “No, they’re not,” Wheeljack protests, leaning in over the warrior’s shoulder to take a look. “He washed them before he left the ‘Bay. I watched him myself.”

                “So did I. But he missed some.”

                Sunstreaker reaches out and takes ahold of Ratchet’s right hand, turning it over to cup it in one of his own. Careful fingers trace over Ratchet’s palm, and he shivers. “Didn’t you?”

                Ratchet looks up from the foreign sight of his hand in Sunstreaker’s and meets the frontliner’s gaze.

                It’s surprisingly non accusatory. Steady and intense, absolutely, but Ratchet sees no recrimination there.

                And confused as the Pit, Ratchet murmurs a ‘yes’.

                Sunstreaker nods again and gracefully folds himself into a seated position right there in the entrance of the stall, placing Ratchet’s hand on Sunstreaker’s nearest knee.

                “Don’t move. I can help with that.”

                Sunstreaker than proceeds to open up a subspace pocket and remove several items, placing them at his side, far away from the spray of water still beating down on the opposite wall.

                Ratchet feels frozen in place, watching the frontliner line up several jars and brushes. Wheelack is just as frozen, but he appears more flabbergasted than anything.

                “What are you doing?” he finally asks.

                “What does it look like I’m doing?” Sunstreaker responds, not even glancing at the other mech. The warrior instead picks up a slender brush, twists off the top to one of the jars, and coats the bristles in the clear liquid inside. Then he brushes the excess off on the lip of the container and reaches again for Ratchet’s hand.

                The brush is applied to his palm, and after a few strokes, the red paint there begins to liquefy. Sunstreaker pauses to reach out and rinse the brush in the fall of water before recoating the bristles with the jar’s contents and applying the substance to Ratchet’s hand once more.

                “You’re stripping his paint?!” Wheeljack asks in disbelief.

                Sunstreaker doesn’t bother with a reply; he merely continues his motions, methodically removing the color from Ratchet’s palm.

                And while Wheeljack is confused, all Ratchet feels is relief. He sags in place, leaning forward to give Sunstreaker more room to work.

                There’s silence from all three of them for several moments until Wheeljack takes a hesitant step forward. “Ratchet?”

                “I’m ok,” Ratchet replies faintly, avidly watching as all the red is stripped from the underside of his hand. It’s then flipped over and the same process is done to the top of it, Sunstreaker laying a thick cloth on his knee so that none of the paint remover makes contact with any of the warrior’s gold.

                Out of the corner of Ratchet’s optic, he watches Wheeljack approach, slowly lowering himself down next to Sunstreaker. The warrior pauses and looks up sidelong at the engineer for a tense moment.

                Almost in unison, they look away, and Sunstreaker resumes his self-appointed task. Ratchet ex-vents a sigh of relief and then catches Sunstreaker smirking.

                He twitches his fingers in Sunstreaker’s grip, making him look up with a raised orbital ridge. “What? I’m too busy to move him,” he says in explanation, tilting his head meaningfully towards the engineer. Wheeljack harrumphs at being dismissed, but otherwise just scoots closer to Ratchet as Sunstreaker continues.

                Soon all of the red is gone from Ratchet’s right hand. He thinks Sunstreaker will move on, but he reaches for a smaller, narrower brush and attacks each transformation seam and crevice in Ratchet’s hand, twisting the tool back and forth to ensure he gets every speck of paint. Only then does he continue on to the second hand.

                The whole process doesn’t take as long as Ratchet thought it would. He works with his hands every day. Protective wax coatings never remain in place long, so layers of paint have been chipped and worn away over time. Sunstreaker just hurries up the natural progression of wear and tear.

                Once he’s finished, he rinses Ratchet’s hands in the nearby spray, making him hiss with discomfort and instinctively jerk out of Sunstreaker’s grasp. His sensors have been overstimulated from the brushes and the heat of the water is nearly too much to stand.

                “Turn them down,” Sunstreaker instructs with another optic roll, before yanking Ratchet’s hands back under the stream of water.

                For sheer self-preservation, Ratchet does, although he’s tempted to relish in the pain. But needs his hands in the long-term and delicate medic-grade sensors are difficult to replace.

                He thinks that’ll be the end of things, but Sunstreaker merely regrips the first hand and this time takes a tiny brush to the joints of each finger. He carefully removes miniscule grit out of every gear, optics only inches away to help him see what he is doing.

                “Why are you doing this?” Ratchet asks after staring at Sunstreaker’s bent helm for several minutes. It takes Ratchet that long for his mind to process through the shock. Removing the paint is one thing, but this…

                Sunstreaker pauses, looking up over Ratchet’s bent thumb. “Your hands were dirty. Still are.”

                Ratchet shakes his head and tries to pull away. Sunstreaker doesn’t let him, fingers clamping down in an iron grip. “This is professional work, Sunstreaker. What a high quality detailer would do. I don’t deserve this. Not after…”

                He turns his head to the side in shame even as Wheeljack makes a questioning noise.

                “Not after what?” Sunstreaker asks, optics challenging. And there is that fixed, penetrating gaze again, practically boring through Ratchet’s helm. It doesn’t take long before the words erupt out of him.

                “You _know_ what! I nearly killed your brother. And you by extension!” Ratchet exclaims, yanking with all his strength. He doesn’t manage to pull free as much as Sunstreaker releases him.

                “What? What are you talking about, Ratch?” Wheeljack asks in confusion. “Sideswipe is fine. Or at least he was when I left.”

                “Yeah, he’s fine _now_ ,” Ratchet retorts, his vocalizer cracking. “But he almost wasn’t. I fragged up. I caught it, and I fixed it, but I nearly didn’t. That’s why I left.”

                His hands start trembling again as he recalls his mistake.

                Sideswipe had landed in Medical this time because of some shrapnel which had gotten lodged in his chest. Despite that, he had been stable under Perceptor’s care as the scientist had removed the majority of the shards. But one, a small piece stuck partway into Sideswipe’s spark casing, had been beyond Perceptor’s comfort level. So he had called Ratchet over.

                It was something Ratchet had done plenty of times before as a field medic. Twice before in Sideswipe actually. So it should have been an easy procedure. However, as he was removing the shrapnel, it got tangled within the tubing that directly fed the warrior’s spark. Impatient to check back on Optimus, Ratchet had tugged far harder than he should have at the shard.

                Sideswipe’s spark had immediately dimmed as a razor sharp edge of shrapnel sliced through the main energon line which supported the frontliner’s core. Ratchet had been hard pressed to patch the tear before Sideswipe’s spark guttered.

                Ratchet knew his limits. They weren’t many, but he did have them, despite what a lot of others thought. He had made a rookie mistake and proved that he was far too tired and emotionally wrung out by Optimus’ condition to continue on.

                Fortunately, Sideswipe had been the last patient needing Ratchet’s particular expertise. He had finished the warrior’s repairs, put him into medical stasis, and handed the room over to Hoist and Perceptor.

                And then Ratchet had left, walking through the halls with Sideswipe’s life fluids on his hands, practically coating them despite several washes. At the time, all he could think of was getting his hands clean. But even the volcano-hot spray of these particular washracks hadn’t been able to get the energon off.  It was as if it had bonded to the very paint itself.

                Something Sunstreaker had somehow known. Of course he had been getting repaired by Wheeljack in the bed next to Sideswipe’s. The golden frontliner had probably witnessed everything and even felt the drain on his half of their spark. It’s only now that Ratchet realizes Sunstreaker had never once said anything.  

                “Yeah. And?” Sunstreaker retorts, yanking Ratchet back to the present.

                Ratchet blinks in disbelief at the warrior. “Don’t you care that I nearly killed your spark-twin!? You go on a rampage if a ‘con knocks him to the ground!”

                Sunstreaker shrugs nonchalantly. “If we’re gonna go, better done by someone who cares about us.”

                Ratchet gapes at Sunstreaker, jaw hanging open. “Wha… you… I don’t…”

                “Yeah, you do,” Sunstreaker replies and gently takes Ratchet’s hand again. He’s too stunned to even protest the touch. “You care _too_ much. You want to fix everything even if it can wait for you to take a break first.”

                As Ratchet continues to just stare in shock at Sunstreaker, Wheeljack speaks up. “Truer words never spoken,” he murmurs.

                Ratchet ignores his friend, because he just can’t comprehend that Wheeljack and Sunstreaker are agreeing on something.

                “So because I was stupid you’re giving me a hand massage? Shouldn’t you be screaming curses at me?” Ratchet finally chokes out.

                “No. I’m giving you a hand massage because you care. You don’t need me to scream at you. You’re doing that enough for everyone. In here.”

                Sunstreaker flips the brush around and pokes the end of it squarely at the middle of Ratchet’s chevron, making him jerk back, his optics crossing.

                “Hey…!”

                “Wheeljack’s right. You need a break. So just relax and let me work, won’t you? I need to concentrate,” Sunstreaker says crossly and then bends his head to take up his task again. As if detailing was a normal occurrence between himself and Ratchet.

                Ratchet turns to Wheeljack for assistance, because his poor processor just can’t handle the situation anymore.

                Wheeljack merely smiles back, soft and affectionate.

                It’s the final thing that breaks Ratchet down completely.  

                He leans sideways and Wheeljack meets him halfway, shoring him up with an arm around his waist. Whelejack’s windshield ends up as Ratchet’s pillow, the two of them curling into one another like they haven’t in a long, long time; not since the early days of the war. His best friend smells like smoke and medical disinfectant, with a touch of scorched ozone that is purely Wheeljack.

                It’s the most comforting thing in the world right now and Ratchet burrows close. It’s only fair that Wheeljack gets a turn to exercise his protective instincts every now and then. After all, Ratchet certainly does it enough for everyone else on the Ark.

                Over the roaring in his audials, Ratchet hears Sunstreaker ex-vent in exasperation and shift as well, pulling Ratchet’s hand closer to himself.

                “Get comfortable. We’re gonna be here a while,” Sunstreaker informs them.

\---

                It takes over five hours, but Ratchet walks out of the washracks with sparkling cherry-red hands and a quiet spark.

                And if Sunstreaker can keep his injuries to a minimum in the future, maybe someone else to check up on Ratchet when he pushes himself too far.

               

 

 ~ End


End file.
